


Let There Be Light

by smolintj



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Post Apocalypse, crowley gets what he deserves, date, good omens - Freeform, ineffable husbands, oh god im just gay and pining and relate to crowley okay, otp ineffable, otp: ineffable, soft, warning for heavy religious themery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 14:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19854691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolintj/pseuds/smolintj
Summary: After the not-Apocalypse, Aziraphale has a surprise for Crowley, and Crowley realizes he may not have fallen so far after all.





	Let There Be Light

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was inspired by the absolutely gorgeous song, "Stolen Dance", by the band Milky Chance. Lyrics are listed below, but for the full concept, I would recommend listening to it (also it's a beautiful song). Thank you for reading!
> 
> I want you by my side  
> So that I never feel alone again  
> They've always been so kind  
> But now they've brought you away from me  
> I hope they didn't get your mind  
> Your heart is too strong, anyway  
> We need to fetch back the time  
> They've stolen from us  
> And I want you, we can bring it on the floor  
> You've never danced like this before  
> We don't talk about it  
> Dancing on, do the boogie all night long  
> Stoned in paradise  
> Shouldn't talk about it  
> And I want you, we can bring it on the floor  
> You've never danced like this before  
> We don't talk about it  
> Dancing on, do the boogie all night long  
> Stoned in paradise  
> Shouldn't talk about it, shouldn't talk about it  
> Coldest winter for me  
> No sun is shining anymore  
> The only thing I feel is pain  
> Caused by absence of you  
> Suspense controlling my mind  
> I cannot find the way out of here  
> I want you by my side  
> So that I never feel alone again  
> And I want you, we can bring it on the floor  
> You've never danced like this before  
> We don't talk about it  
> Dancing on, do the boogie all night long  
> Stoned in paradise  
> Shouldn't talk about it  
> And I want you, we can bring it on the floor  
> You've never danced like this before  
> We don't talk about it  
> Dancing on, do the boogie all night long  
> Stoned in paradise  
> Shouldn't talk about it, shouldn't talk about it  
> And I want you, we can bring it on the floor  
> You've never danced like this before  
> We don't talk about it  
> Dancing on, do the boogie all night long  
> Stoned in paradise  
> Shouldn't talk about it  
> And I want you, we can bring it on the floor  
> You've never danced like this before  
> We don't talk about it  
> Dancing on, do the boogie all night long  
> Stoned in paradise  
> Shouldn't talk about it, shouldn't talk about it

They were sliding through the streets, the rain making the night seem slick as oil and twice as thick, with the streetlights and neon signs reflecting dizzily off the puddles like a kaleidoscope. Crowley kept his eyes on the road, knowing it would reassure his angel, even if he refused to slow down or put two hands on the wheel. He glanced out of the corner of his eye, examining Aziraphale's expression as slyly as he could behind his shades, hoping the angel wouldn't notice. Aziraphale was keeping his face as impassive as possible, but Crowley knew him too well, and his eyes casually skittered across the slightly white knuckles in Az's lap, the nearly imperceptible tension of a soft smile playing at his lips. Aziraphale turned his head and raised an eyebrow questioningly, and Crowley could not stop the smile from tugging at his own lips.

"Dear," Aziraphale said with sudden urgency, "the ROAD."

Crowley whipped his head forward, jerked the wheel to barely miss oncoming traffic. Shit, he thought. He oughta be more careful, if they were discorporated now they'd be really plucked.

"S'rry," He mumbled, his shoulders hunching slightly. 

"It's alright, dear," Aziraphale said nervously, readjusting his hands in his lap, "just, please be careful. I'd like to get to our destination alive."

At this, Crowley couldn't help but glance sidelong across the dash. Where were they going? The angel hadn't given him an address, just slightly nervous directions at each corner. Crowley frowned, realizing that this nervousness was different, somehow, than the usual anxiety his angel experienced when he drove. He turned ahead and kept driving, eyes slightly blinded, even through his sunglasses, the bentley seeming to barely fit between the streetlights above and the muddled reflections below, headlights blazing before them.

They sat in silence for a bit as the engine hummed and rain tapped on the roof, interrupted by the occasional whoosh of the wipers. 

"Left up here." Aziraphale said, his face barely visible in the shadows. Crowley licked his lips nervously, took the left. Something was wrong. Aziraphale was too quiet, keeping his expression and body too still, like when he talked to angels. Crowley felt the heavy hand of panic begin to close around his heart. Was this it then? The last meeting? It took all his pride not to glance at Aziraphale again, to try to memorize his features, even though he knew them by heart.

He thought this was over, after the Ritz, that they were on their own side. But now the angel, his angel, sat oddly still, eyes flicking around quickly, nervousness in his hands and a tiny smile on his face.

Crowley hunched miserably up to the steering wheel as they headed through a more deserted area, warehouses looming out of the darkness on either side.

Aziraphale seemed to be counting. "Ah!" he exclaimed, happily, but with that slight tinge of anxiety, "This one here, number 42."

Crowley pulled in abruptly and cut the engine. He stared straight ahead in the silence broken only by metal popping as the engine cooled and his own breathing, louder than he would have liked. Aziraphale was looking at him, he could feel it, studying his features.

"Dear...?" Aziraphale was worried now, but Crowley noted with some relief that he'd adjusted in his seat again, hands more relaxed, body turned towards Crowley with an openness he hadn't shown on the ride. But still, Crowley was afraid. He didn't turn. He kept his face impassive.

"What is this, angel?" He hadn't meant his voice to come out so harsh, but it betrayed his fear, as it always had, through anger.

Aziraphale drew back, the fabric of his jacket rustling, looking hurt.  


"I'm- I'm sorry." Crowley managed, hurriedly, and reached up to rub the bridge of his nose with long skinny fingers. "I'm just-"

"It's okay," Az said softly beside him, and Crowley turned to see the angel looking down at his fidgeting hands, still hurt but mostly sad, "I can understand why this seems, well, rather odd, but it's meant to be a surprise." He looked up hopefully, big eyes fixing on Crowley's through his glasses, and smiled.

Crowley swallowed, feeling his heart turn molten in his chest. "A surprise," he echoed, "Angel, don't you think there have been enough surprises?"

"Not like this," Aziraphale insisted, smiling a little broader, "This is a happy surprise. Do you trust me?"

The answer came to his lips without thinking, almost before he knew it was there, "Yes, angel."

Aziraphale leaned forwards and clasped his hand where it rested on the shift, just for a moment, but the sensation was electric in Crowley's skin, tingling after Aziraphale had gotten out of the car, and as Crowley himself got out, slightly dizzy, and followed Aziraphale to a heavy door in the wall, which Aziraphale deftly produced a key for, and opened, stepping aside and gesturing Crowley to go first.

Crowley swallowed, his left hand still feeling foreign, and stepped through the entrance into the darkness, his eyes adjusting quickly, for once grateful for the leftovers of Crawly.

The vast room was empty, well, nearly empty. Against the far wall was a table, set with some bottles, another wall had a record player, some stacked speakers, and a small laptop.

Crowley turned to the entrance, where Aziraphale stood behind him, smiling smugly to himself, hands laced behind his back.

Crowley tried to find his voice, but all that came out was a hoarse, "what-" before Aziraphale grinned, with perhaps just a touch of wickedness, snapped his fingers, and the room sprung to life. 

Lights above and below shone out, revealing a slightly raised platform in the center of the room, small multicolored lights gleaming from beneath glass panes.

Crowley's mouth fell open, and as he tried to shut it he could only manage an incredulous, "no!"

Aziraphale looked so pleased with himself that Crowley thought he might burst. "Bebop!" He announced proudly.

"It's not... they're not..." Crowley shook his head incredulously, finally managing, "I don't listen to bebop."

But he couldn't hold the smile back as he tried to chide his angel, and as he glanced around, he looked back to see that Aziraphale had stepped forward. He looked hesitant again, then reached a hand up towards Crowley's face. "May I?" he asked, softly this time.

Still as a snake, Crowley nodded, almost imperceptibly, as Aziraphale took hold of his sunglasses with both hands and gently, almost reverently, laid them down on a table near the door.

Aziraphale frowned when he turned back, seeing Crowley squinting, "Oh, dear, is it to bright? I tried to make it soft because I know your eyes are more sensitive but-"

"No, it's- Thank you."

"I just thought it'd be nice, with no one else here, to see you without the glasses."

Crowley blinked at him. "It is," he reassured his angel.

Aziraphale started suddenly as behind him, the record player came to life, the violins of Mozart oozing out the speakers. "I didn't, I mean, that wasn't me!"

Crowley grinned then, a crooked, devilish grin, and held out a hand, "Care to dance, Angel?"

"Oh!" the angel rushed forward, babbling slightly in his excitement, "oh, I was so worried you wouldn't like it, I'm so glad! And excellent choice, one of my favorites, did you know Mozart consulted me on this very piece? I thought he had ought to add more tremolo but-"

Crowley did know, he'd heard this story often enough to know it by heart, but he smiled as the familiar words washed over him and he led his angel by the hand towards the center of the room. Where their hands met felt electric, like the songs humans loved to sing, but Crowley thought it might be something else. Two worlds long separated, supposedly permanently, getting to know each other again, right here, right now. And he, of all people, damned as he was, was lucky enough to be in this here, in this now, with this angel. 

"Thank you," he murmured again, and he found himself repeating it again and again, as the record player went on, and the champagne bottles (and oysters) were opened, and their dances got progressively more clumsy, their laughter more drunken, and the music circled dizzyingly from Bach to Queen to Chopin to The Velvet Underground to Beethoven and back again, and around and around they circled, like binary stars, like Alpha Centauri itself, so close as for their lights to be indistinguishable.

Finally, late into the night, Crowley felt as if he were awakening from a dream to find himself standing in the center of the room, holding Aziraphale, feeling himself gently swaying. At first he thought it must be from the champagne, but then he felt Aziraphale's hand in his own, swaying slightly in time.

After a time, Aziraphale spoke, "My love, you know you don't have to keep thanking me."

My love. Crowley's heart jumped inti his throat and he was so distracted he muttered, all too honestly, "s'not for you."

He felt Aziraphale's hand stiffen in his, and suddenly fear gripped him again. Had he said something wrong? Had he ruined it all again? Had he been given everything, absolutely everything, and thrown it away again with careless words, falling and falling through the dark, wings burning till they were soot black?

Aziraphale had stopped swaying, and drew back to look, surprised, at Crowley. Their faces were so close Crowley could feel the angel's warm breath on his skin.

"You mean its for... oh. Oh. Oh!" As recognition dawned on the face of the angel, it felt like a new dawn, not seen since the eastern gate, when Crowley had met this strangely compassionate angel, who valued love above order, who was just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing, who was blinking tears from his eyes before him. "Oh, Crowley, you can't mean-"

Crowley smiled sardonically, tipping his head back to see the vaulted ceiling above to hide his eyes again. He shrugged, as if it was nothing, "Now she's answered me twice, so that's something."

He heard a small sniff, and glanced down to see Aziraphale wiping his eye, "It's been 80 years!" he exclaimed, a bit indignantly, "She could have answered sooner!"

Crowley couldn't hold back a snort at that, "Angel, it's been 6004 years. But it doesn't matter. We're here now."

Aziraphale's eyes had grown wide as saucers, blue as a summer sky and shining in the light. And as Crowley opened his mouth again to say something flippant, the angel clumsily lurched forwards and met his mouth mid-syllable. All thoughts scattered like starlight, and suddenly he was Here, really Here for the first time in a long, long time. He forgot how very old he was, he forgot how much death he'd witnessed, he forgot his doubt, he forgot what falling felt like, he forgot Alpha Centauri and incoming battles and phone networks and sunglasses, and he was Here, in a warehouse, on Earth, the rising sun and the falling son finally meeting after chasing each other round and round and round the earth since it began.

Then it broke, and they pulled away, and Aziraphale looked even more shocked than before, "I-I'm sorry! That was most ungentlemanly, and I shouldn't've, I mean, I hope this doesn't ruin our friendship after all these yea-"

"Oh, it absolutely does," Crowley said, grinning like a loon.

"Oh, thank God," Aziraphale breathed, and cupped a hand along Crowley's jawline to pull him back. This time, Crowley paid attention. He wanted to remember, the soft music playing behind them, some symphony they'd heard together, somewhere long ago. He wanted to remember the musty smell of mothballs from his angel's daft old coat, the scent of old books and ink and latex on Aziraphale's hand along his face, the smell of a home he'd been chasing since the world began. Through the kisses, he felt his lips mumble again, over and over, "thank you," "thank you," "thank you," as if to make up for lost time, all the thank you's from before, that he hadn't gotten to utter due to the War between Heaven and Hell, the quiet one, the one that had kept them as soldiers on different sides, the one they had fled, and made their peace with.

And for once, Crowley knew he was not forsaken. He had been tested, but he had not been tested to destruction.

He had been tested into salvation, held tight in a new world with the scales shed from his eyes, no longer dimming the light of the world but drinking it in, harsh and soft and scattered light all, and, without thinking, his wings unfurled behind him, and Aziraphale's opened too, brushing each other softly above their heads.

Crowley smiled, and couldn't help the tears. He had, ineffably, been returned to Heaven after all.


End file.
